Duct Tape and Strawberry Shampoo
by emotional-static
Summary: Post RENT: Mark learns how to say goodbye. COMPLETE AS OF 8-31-03. Reviews welcome!


DUCT TAPE AND STRAWBERRY SHAMPOO 

A/N: The idea for this popped into my head, and it took me about twenty minutes to write. I even made myself cry, but I really had to get it out. Rated PG for language. Leave me a review and let me know what you think.

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How do you say goodbye?

I mean, is there really a certain way to say goodbye to someone that you've gotten used to always being there, every day of the year? If they went away, be it for a short or long period of time, they'd come back.

When they don't, how are you supposed to cope with that?

You cry, you storm away, you throw things, and you get angry. You refuse to see people, but refusing them only makes you want to see them more. You want to get up and scream at someone—anyone, to take the pain away. It's not fair. Life's not fair. You want to be strong for everyone else, but at the end of the day, who's supposed to be the strong one for you.

So it goes.

I'm standing in the corner of our loft. Just standing and staring. If I sit down, I get right back up. It's completely repetitive, and would probably be annoying to anyone else, be it if they were in the room with me. 

My flight leaves in three hours, and I told them to wait downstairs.

"But Marky, are you sure about this?" Maureen asked me, in that annoying voice of hers. The annoying voice that we all had grown to love over the years.

I've never been more sure about anything in my life. I'm twenty-eight fucking years old and this is the first major decision I've made in my entire life. I was always the one to stay. Now I have no reason to.

Twenty minutes later I'm still standing here, the early morning sunshine leaking through the dusty window that had been broken exactly three times over the past nine years that I've stayed in the shithole that we all called home. I don't know what I'm expected to do up here, so I pace. I start with the living room, running my fingers over the beat up couch that was too sentimental to get rid of, although we could have afforded better. To the kitchen, where boxes of Cap'n Crunch were consumed religiously. The bathroom, where April's blood was forever entombed in the tub and the walls, her lipstick visible on the mirror only in my memory. I opened the medicine cabinet, expecting to find god knows what. Instead I'm left with leftover aftershave, a miniature bottle of Mimi's shampoo, and Roger's razor, a piece of duct tape wrapped around it so no one else would use it. I slammed it shut rather angrily, moving on to the bedrooms. My office, where my work mattered so much to me. Roger and Mimi's bedroom. I creaked the door open softly. It still smelt like them, and if I closed my eyes long enough, I could almost hear them. Roger and I messing around with each other. Joking, laughing, withdrawal. Mimi hopping onto my back and tickling me. I expected Roger's closet to still be messy with clothes that were supposed to have been washed three weeks ago.

Empty.

It felt strange to look over to the "Fender" corner, as we all grew accustomed to calling it, and not see the guitar or the scattered pieces of sheet music and pencils. 

Maybe because his guitar was in the process of being shipped to my new "home" in Anaheim.

Yeah, you heard that right. Anaheim, California. Guess I made it big after all, huh?

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I took one more look around the dusty loft that had been vacant for weeks. One more pace and I'd be out the door. My hand rested on the doorknob, the remembrance of what Roger said to me the day he died. Last words, I guess.

"Listen to me, Mark. Never give up, okay? You fight it out, here me? Don't be a fucking quitter. You were always the strong one, and goddammit if you give up on anything I'll personally come back from wherever I end up and kick your scrawny, Jewish punk ass."

"You're tougher than you look, Davis. You put in a good word for us up there, okay? You—you take care of Mimi, and Angel, can you do that?"

The tears were coming by that point, and I started getting transfixed with the window shade.

"You got it…I don't think I ever really told you, but I wouldn't have made it if it wasn't for you. If you didn't pull me through everything. You're the best friend I've ever had."

_"Who's gonna give everyone hell when you're gone?" I had said, trying to lighten the mood. His breaths were becoming shallow, almost silent._

_"I never thought of that. You give 'em hell for me Mark," he answered, a smile crossing his face._

That day was January 16, 2000. 

He was one day shy of 29 years old, and he went too fast.

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I might as well have blacked out during the funeral, because I don't remember a thing. After it was over, his family went back to Scarsdale, along with my mother. Maureen, Joanne, Collins, Benny, and I headed back to Collins' place. It was too painful to go back upstairs. We started talking, crying, and laughing over everything, all our memories. 

A week later, I was packed, and the movers were ready to haul my things 3000 miles away.

Now here I am, trying to force myself to say some kind of goodbye, but I can't. Instead I look, turn, and walk out of the loft, closing the door behind me.

Maureen meets me at the foot of the stairs, her mascara running for the fifth time that day. I give her a hug, and together we, followed by Collins, Benny, and Joanne, pile into her Acura and thunder down the familiar streets to Newark International Airport.

I couldn't bring myself to look back. Not once.

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After I check my bags and go through security, there's nothing to do but wait. We sit, huddled together like a group of strangers, although we know better to call ourselves that.

"Now boarding first class, rows two through eight for American Airlines flight 508 nonstop to Los Angeles, California. All passengers please make your way to the boarding checkpoint."

I stand up, somewhat mechanically, and somewhat willingly. So do the others. Collins is the first to break down, followed by Benny and Maureen. Joanne tries to compose herself, but she can't either. I had to admit, we looked a little strange all massed together in a giant group hug.

"Call if anything happens. I don't care what it is. Just call, okay?" I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

"Yeah. We will. You just take care of yourself, okay?" Benny says, hugging me again.

"We love you sweetheart. See you in April?" Maureen smiles. I kiss her on the cheek.

"Yeah. April. Well, I guess this is it then."

"Something like that." Collins says, cracking a smile. I sling my duffel over my shoulder and walk towards the checkpoint, and as the flight attendant checks my ticket, and turn back and notice a familiar spike of blonde hair posed against the arrival and departure board. The familiar leather jacket gives him away. He smiles and waves.

"Give 'em hell, Mark. Give 'em hell."

"See ya around, Roger."

"Excuse me?" The flight attendant asks, confused. I blink and look back again, but no one is there.

"Nothing. Sorry."

__________________________

Sometimes when you say goodbye, you're selfish enough to get rid of everything that person has ever touched or known.

I guess I'm lucky. The film and pictures say enough.

And that, I think, is a proper goodbye.

_"…You'll miss New York before you could unpack…"_


End file.
